Louisa Rawlings (17 page)

“But what about the banker’s scheme?” asked Martin. “We’ve scarcely spoken of it to Topaze.”

“Time enough when he gets here,” said Lucien. “When can you seek him out in Nantes, Martin?”

“Next week.” Martin scowled. “I don’t see why you can’t go, name of God! He’s
your
acquaintance.”

Lucien laughed. “It’s been a few years, but I can’t be sure of my reception in Nantes. A matter of some jewels that I sold.”

Topaze feigned innocence. “Not
stolen
, monsieur!”

“Alas, yes.”

“Then the police are looking for you?”

He grinned. “That’s the least of my problems. The rogue I sold them to seeks me as well.”

“Why?” Topaze could almost swear he gloried in being thought wicked.

“It was his misfortune that they turned out to be paste.”

She giggled. “Now
my
conscience is clear. I’m just sorry that I didn’t keep your knife.” And smiled to see him join in her laughter.

Martin stood abruptly. “My head hurts. I think I need another walk to clear my brain.” Snatching up his coat, he stalked from the room.

Chapter Ten

Much to Topaze’s dismay, Martin’s black mood persisted for days.
How he must long for home
, she thought. Her “lessons” had now become merely repetitions of facts, hour after hour. What games did she play as a child? How many children did the old cook have? Where were the roads that led to the villages—Pouzauges, Chantonnay, les Herbiers? More and more Martin excused himself from the drills, leaving that tedium for Lucien. He sat alone in the room downstairs, reading, or disappeared for hours at a time.

It was Henriette who finally gave her a clue. “What a bother!” she exclaimed. “Bits of straw all over Monsieur Ducellier’s floor. I’ll warrant I’ve swept away half the barn this past week!”

It was a sunny day, with a hint of spring in the air. Topaze teased Lucien into an early release from her lessons, and left him—still chuckling—to seek out Martin. From the farmyard, noisy with its clacking ducks and yapping dogs, she climbed the ladder to one of the haylofts. It was dim, lit only by a small window and the open doorway, but she discerned Martin in the gloom. He lay on his back in the scented hay, his hands behind his head, and stared up at the beams of the ceiling. “Aha!” she crowed, flopping down beside him. “I’ve discovered your lair.”

“Are you finished with your lessons for the morning?”

She raised herself on one elbow and looked down on him. His handsome face was sober. His eyes continued to find the ceiling beams engaging. She picked up a straw and tickled his nose with it. “Yes,” she answered. “And I want to have fun.”

“Stop that,” he said, brushing at the straw. “Go and ask Lucien.”

“Lucien’s no fun. You’re my jolly companion. Or were. Until you turned into an old sobersides.” She tickled his ear.

He scowled at her. “I said, stop that.”

She got up on her knees beside him. “You miss your home. I can understand that. But you’ll be returning soon. In the meantime, put a smile on your face and come and play with me.” She scooped up an armful of straw and dumped it on his head.

“Damn you. Enough!” He grabbed her in a savage embrace and pushed her back onto the straw. His mouth ground down on hers. What was he doing? Her friend. She writhed beneath him, making little squeaking sounds against his cruel mouth. Abruptly he released her and turned away.

She sat up, shaking, and stared at his back. A single tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away. It was followed by another. Below, in the farmyard, the rooster crowed. “Martin,” she whispered at last, “what have I done? Why are you vexed with me?
Dieu
, I think you must hate me. Is that it? Do you hate me?”

He turned around. His eyes were dark with remorse. “No.”

“I always thought you were my friend. The night I slept on your lap…it was so kind of you, so dear and sweet. It wouldn’t have crossed Lucien’s mind—to care that I was lonely.”

He managed an unhappy smile. “I
am
your friend. And devil take Lucien.”

She sniffled and wiped her cheeks, then stopped, remembering. “But he
was
kind.” She frowned. “Did you know, Martin, he did a most peculiar thing? I learned it from Henriette. He slept beside me that night. To keep me company, he said. That’s all. It wasn’t like him at all. A kindness that
you’d
do.” She touched her lip. It still hurt from his cruel assault. “At least I thought you would.”

He stared at her, an odd expression on his face. Then he laughed softly. “I would if you asked. But tell me. Lucien. Didn’t you even waken?”

“No. The last thing I remember was how nice it was, sitting on your lap. Then it was morning, and I was in my bed. I thought you’d put me there.”

He smiled broadly. She hadn’t seen such warmth in his eyes for a week. He shook his head in wonder. “Sweet Jesu. And you never woke up.”

“No.” She giggled. “Whatever Lucien might have done, it couldn’t have been very enthralling.” She remembered the Givets’ noisy, lusty reunions. “It’s not something a body sleeps through, I’d reckon.” She lay back again and nestled into the fragrant softness. “I like the smell of hay.”

He leaned over and smiled down at her. “I like you.”

She rubbed her lips. “It was mean to kiss me like that.”

He glanced away. “I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t sure what prompted her. Curiosity, perhaps. Or just the sweetness of the hay. The sweetness of the man. “My lip still hurts,” she said, and closed her eyes.

He kissed her then, a soft, gentle kiss. He had a pleasant mouth; it made her feel warm, secure. He lifted his head. She opened her eyes. Again she saw the strange look cross his face. “Dear little Topaze.”

“What a good friend you are, Martin. Will you kiss me again? For friendship’s sake?”

He smiled. “For friendship’s sake,” and bent his head to hers.

“I know you’re supposed to be an actress, and hence wanton. But you needn’t play the part to the life.” They looked up, startled. Lucien stood at the head of the ladder, frowning down at them. His mouth curved in disgust. “I don’t give a damn for myself, but if you mean to cuckold me,
wife
, at least do it where the servants won’t find you.”

Topaze couldn’t tell what angered her more: his unpleasant tone, or his indifference at finding her in Martin’s arms. She smiled and draped a languid hand across Martin’s shoulder. “You have my leave to go, Lucien. I’m Véronique. I’m a flirt, remember? And if I choose to practice with Martin, that’s my concern. Go away.”

“You insolent chit,” he growled, his eyes flashing at her cavalier dismissal. “Véronique may be a flirt, but she’s not a whore.”

“You rail at an innocent kiss? Pooh! Kiss me again, Martin.” Martin smiled coldly at Lucien, and obeyed. This time the kiss was not so innocent, and his arms encircled Topaze in a passionate embrace. Topaze nearly laughed aloud. She herself couldn’t have thought of anything better to rankle Lucien.

“Oh, for Lord’s sake.” Boredom clung to Lucien’s every word. “Do as you wish. I only came to tell you, Martin, that your Aunt Louise has found a miniature of your mother, and wants you to have it.” Cursing under his breath, he climbed down.

Topaze sat up and smiled. “You ought to go to Madame Le Sage.”

“I suppose so.” Martin stood up and helped her to her feet. He kissed her once again.

“Dear Martin.” She brushed the straw from his blond hair. “Have I cheered you?”

He grinned. “Indeed, yes.”

Whatever had caused Martin’s unhappiness seemed to vanish after that. Once again he was her boon companion, laughing and romping with her through every foolish game that she devised. But the morning in the loft had opened the floodgates: now he tried to kiss her at every opportunity. In the name of friendship, he’d say, and, laughing, she’d offer her lips.

The days went by. Spring came to the hills, with a hazy green that clothed the bare trees, and a warming sweetness in the air. The time was growing short, Topaze knew. There was little more for Véronique to learn. Soon they’d come to a parting of the ways. She didn’t like to think about it. It gave her a dull ache, somewhere near her heart. A hollow feeling. Ah, well. She guessed it must be fear, a little apprehension, the last lingering doubts as to the wisdom of the scheme. She forced herself to think of how pleasant life would be for the Givets, when she had her share of the money. She would buy the children little toy babies, drums, woolly animals to be dragged on a string.

She smiled to herself, thinking of it, as she started down the stairs one afternoon. And tops and little horns. The simple toys and games were best. She stopped on the landing. Simple games. Henriette had left a tray at the top of the stairs. A large lacquered platter. She giggled softly.
Dare I?
she thought. She looked back up the stairs, then down to the small vestibule. No one was about. Madame Le Sage was likely in the kitchen. And she saw no one through the half-open door that led into the common room. The men must be out in the yard. By Sainte Blandine, why not? She hurried back up the stairs, picked up the tray, and carried it to the landing. She seated herself carefully on it, crossed her legs, tucked in her skirts, and guided her makeshift sled to the edge of the first step. She closed her eyes, clutched the sides of the tray, and leaned forward. The tray tipped, then went clattering down the stairs at breakneck speed and deposited her in a tumbled heap at the foot of the stairs. She laughed aloud—Ave Maria, what a ride!—and opened her eyes.

Lucien towered above her, a bemused look on his face. She smiled uneasily, trying to gauge his mood. It was always difficult to tell. Sometimes it seemed to her that when he was the most in earnest was the time he grinned the most, his eyes flashing wickedly. He reached down and hauled her to her feet. “What the devil are you doing?”

“I did this as a child.”

He sighed. “Lord, will the chit never learn? You didn’t do it as a child.”

“But of course I did! I remember…”

His eyes were cold. “No. You didn’t do it as a child.
Véronique
didn’t do it as a child. You’re Véronique now. And Véronique didn’t behave like a wild hoyden.” He turned about and marched into the common room.

Chastened, she followed him. “I’m sorry.” She curtsied grandly, then wobbled on the way up. He frowned. She tried again. “Is this better?” She smiled, a tentative smile. “Did Véronique dance? We never spoke of it.
I
can dance.”

He seemed pleased at that. “Can you?” He held out his hand. “Show me.”

“A minuet, if you don’t mind. Something slow.” She put her hand in his. His fingers were warm; she felt their heat coursing through her blood.

They began the minuet to Lucien’s spoken count, but after a few moments they became accustomed to the rhythm, and danced in silence. She admired his lithe grace: he’d been a pirate but—lest she forget—he’d been a gentleman as well. “Did you have country dances at Grismoulins?” she asked.

He slipped his hand around her waist and turned her about. “Yes.”

“And country belles?”

“A few.”

She became more sure-footed with each new pattern of the dance. He smiled, nodded his approval. She glowed. It felt so natural, to be in his arms. And dancing the minuet. The minuet…ladies in beautiful gowns…and a tall man… Somewhere in the back of her mind was a misty memory. “I remember country dances too,” she said dreamily. “That is,
Topaze
remembers. When I was little. I danced with…” She pursed her lips. The tantalizing memory had faded, leaving only its warmth. She shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably one of Maman’s lovers. But I remember how grown-up I felt. To be a child, at a ball, and dancing with a handsome man.” She looked up at him. “Did you dance with your mother when you were a child? Her noble little cavalier?”

He stared at her, his eyes blank. Then he laughed. “Always the prying chit. With your direct questions. I should think you’d have the wit to realize it isn’t ladylike to be so inquisitive.”

It seemed like a complaint, a condemnation, for all that he still smiled at her. She pushed out her lip in sulky resentment. “I suppose Adriane de Ronceray never asks questions.”

“Be careful, girl.” There was danger in the flare of his nostrils, the flash of his eye.

She hated Adriane de Ronceray. “No,” she said with malice, “she doesn’t ask questions. She smiles and simpers and offers her aristocratic hand. Will you take her title—as Hubert has done—when she’s yours? Lucien de Ronceray?”

He dropped her fingers and favored her with a frosty stare. “The dance is finished. Hold your impertinent tongue.”

Defiantly she stuck out her tongue at him, then grasped it between her thumb and forefinger, putting a world of insolence into the gesture. “That for you, you whoring shittlebrain. And for the fair Adriane!”

There was contempt on his face; he clearly found her tiresome. “You’ve been a ragamuffin for too long,” he said. “I’ve told you not to swear. Véronique…”

“Rot and damnation! To hell with Véronique! Véronique this, and Véronique that! Until I’m sick of hearing about her! Well, Topaze can swear. Do you want swearing?” At this she let loose with a string of foul oaths, her anger carrying her beyond reason, beyond common sense, beyond a thought for her safety.